


Invoke

by ameliaann



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaann/pseuds/ameliaann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic based on Walt Whitman's "The Last Invocation".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invoke

_"At the last, tenderly,_  
_From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house,_  
_From the clasp of knitted locks- from the keep of well-closed doors,  
_ _Let me be wafted."_

The smallest hint of a smile graces Sherlock's face, consuming the space between John's palms beautifully. John stills, allowing himself to breathe in the tiny, contented huffs of air that manage to escape Sherlock's lungs. He's always surprised by this. Enraptured by the feel of Sherlock's mind racing beneath his fingertips. As if Sherlock has not only unlocked the door to where his usually reserved thoughts reside, but has swung it wide open and extended John the warmest of welcomes to join him inside. The space is not unlike Sherlock himself, John thinks- chaotic, dangerous, intimidatingly brilliant, and lonely enough to make his chest ache.

John has never wanted to make a home somewhere so badly.

-

_"Let me glide noiselessly forth;_  
_With the key of softness unlock the locks- with a whisper,  
_ _Set ope the doors, O Soul!"_

John is overwhelmed, but keeping his composure. He inhales deeply and counts to three- an old trick he used to use to keep his emotions in check. Sherlock is drawing shapes on the skin of his shoulder. _Molecular models,_ John thinks, _the git._ Another deep breath and John is seeking out Sherlock's fingers with his own, intertwining them as he exhales. Sherlock brushes his thumb over the back of John's hand and John leans in to rest his forehead against the crease of Sherlock's brow.

"John," Sherlock whispers, the name chasing the air past his lips and resting gently in the quiet between them. "What are you thinking about?"

_Forever,_ John wants to say, but vagueness does not Earth-shattering make, and he somehow doubts that Sherlock is looking for a rhetorical answer.

"You," is what comes out instead. Which, when he thinks about it, isn't actually all that different of an answer.

 -

_"Tenderly! be not impatient!_  
_(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!  
_ _Strong is your hold, O love.)"_

Sherlock smiles in a way that John selfishly hopes no other living soul ever gets to see.

"And you?" John asks, thankful for the quiet tone that the atmosphere allows. He doesn't think that he'd trust his own voice to anything more than a whisper at this point.

Sherlock's smile remains, but it loses a touch of its effortlessness as the gears of his mind begin to turn. He isn't closing the door, John knows, but he can see Sherlock retreating further away from it. If anyone understands the difficulty of abandoning a comfort zone that has taken years to construct, it's John Watson.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," Sherlock whispers, and he looks at John as if he's hoping beyond hope that this answer is enough.

John beams.

"Well then, it's a good thing we have so much time, you and I."

 

 


End file.
